What's In A Name
by LaylaBinx
Summary: Five times Illya and Napoleon used various nicknames for each other and one time they didn't. So much bromance, guys. Rated for a bit of language.


**Hello all! Hope you're doing well! I noticed the boys used a lot of nicknames for each other in the movie and thought, "well that's adorable" and that's kind of how this started. I apologize in advance for the shameless use of Spongebob and Lone Ranger quotes. Also, I'm not sure if Illya's mother is still alive in the movie or not but that kind of comes in later. Hope you guys like it! :D**

 **A/N: I own nothing =/**

* * *

 **OOOOO (Cowboy)**

"The monitors will be back online any minute."

"You've said that already."

There's a quiet huff above him. "We really need to go."

"You're not helping."

Another huff followed by a muffled curse. "We are going to be caught unless you hurry up, Cowboy."

"You cannot rush perfection," Napoleon replies calmly as he adjusts another dial.

"I am not rushing perfection," Illya grumbles back. "I am rushing _you._ "

" _Relax_ , Peril," the other agent chides as he carefully adjusts the dial again. "It's not like we're stealing highly classified military secrets."

"We _are_ stealing highly classified military secrets!" Illya hisses in exasperation.

"Exactly," Napoleon counters smoothly. "Which is why you shouldn't be rushing me. The only one who should be rushin' in this situation is you."

Illya gives him a withering glare at the pun and glances back over his shoulder. A muscle in his jaw clenches and he forces himself to stand still.

"Besides," Napoleon continues casually. "It's not exactly stealing if it's already been stolen. Stealing something that's already been stolen negates the act of secondary theft."

"Is that the motto you live by?"

"It's gotten me by so far."

Illya rolls his eyes and grumbles something under his breath. "Fine. But if we get caught I am blaming your American government."

"Duly noted," Napoleon replies cooly as the dial in his hand clicks into place gently. He moves away from that one and turns his attention to the adjacent dial, adjusting it carefully with measured precision. The security monitors had been offline for approximately twenty minutes and, loathe as he was to admit it, Illya was right. They would be back online any minute and once that happened it would only be a matter of time before they were discovered.

It shouldn't have taken this long; the lock wasn't hard to get through and neither was the vault but it had taken at least fifteen minutes to find the room the vault was located in. The maps they had been given were about a month out of date and in that time the Prime Minister's office had been moved from one floor to another on the complete opposite side of the building. That, combined with the fact the building was literally crawling with armed guards and personnel, set them back severely for what should have been an in-and-out job.

Illya shifts behind him and looks back at the door uneasily. One hand is on his gun and the other is tapping against the leg of his slacks anxiously. "Anytime now, Cowboy," he mutters tightly as he turns his attention back to the door.

"Nearly done," Napoleon assures him as the second lock releases beneath his hand. A vault like this wasn't complicated but it took concentration and a bit of finesse to open, both of which Napoleon was in short supply of with Illya constantly giving him updates about how they were seconds away from being made.

There's a soft chirp and Illya reaches up to touch his earpiece. "Da?" he answers quietly, his attention still focused on the door. "No, we're still in the building," he explains with barely disguised annoyance. "Cowboy is taking his time."

"I'm not taking my time," Napoleon counters with equal annoyance. "You're just impatient."

Illya gives him a look that's impossible to describe, somewhere between aggravated and put out. Napoleon simply gives him a charming smile and clicks the last lock into place, opening the vault easily and pulling out the files they'd been sent to retrieve. He waves them just slightly at Illya as indication that their mission had, in fact, been a success up until this point. He slips the decoy files into the safe in place of the real ones and locks the vault again.

"Ready when you are," he tells the other agent coolly, smirking when Illya rolls his eyes again. Napoleon tucks the files into his vest and unholsters his gun, falling into step behind the Russian agent. If their timing is correct, they should have just enough time to make it out of the building before the security monitors come back on.

"You remembered to deactivate the alarm this time, yes?" Illya asks over his shoulder and Napoleon suppresses the urge to shoot him a dirty look.

"Yes, I remembered to deactivate the alarm," he replies curtly but the clipped tone is cut short by the wail of a siren overhead. Illya immediately turns around and levels him with a look that says ' _Really?! Again?!'_ and Napoleon lifts his hands defensively. "Wasn't me, I swear."

Illya grumbles a curse and glares at the ceiling. "The security monitors are back on; the guards will be here any minute."

"Then let's not wait around for them, shall we?" the other agent counters, turning into the nearest office and ushering Illya in behind him. He locks the door behind them and nods toward the window against the outside wall. "That way," he says by way of explanation and Illya is already ahead of him, striding across the room silently and pushing the window open. He leans out and peers down into the darkened alley below. After a second or so, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small flashlight, signaling to someone on the ground.

"The car is at the end of the alley," he tells Napoleon as he tucks the flashlight back into his pocket. "We need to go."

There's a loud thud on the other side of the closed door followed by angry, commanding voices. Obviously their cue to leave. "After you," the American agent says, motioning Illya toward the window and following him out onto the fire escape. The window slides closed behind them and they're halfway down the fire escape before the door to the room they'd been standing in moments before crashes open to the inside and a cluster of armed guards rushes in.

The window they'd climbed through is shoved open just as they make it to the ground and they're already sprinting down the alley to the waiting car by the time the first guards make it out onto the fire escape. Bullets ping and ricochet off the brick walls around them but don't hit their mark as the two agents clamber into the back of the car. Their driver, a fellow agent by the name of Rangel, looks back at them when they get in. "Got everything?"

"Everything we needed," Napoleon tells him, ducking instinctively as another bullet pings off the roof. "Feel free to drive anytime now."

"Suddenly in a rush now, Cowboy?" Illya asks with a small smirk as the car pulls out of the alley and away from the building and bullets.

"I'm only in a hurry when bullets are involved," the American agent replies, sitting up a little straighter as they drive further away.

Illya just chuckles softly in response. "Hi-yo, Silver, away," he tells their driver, flashing a smirk at the other agent in the rearview mirror.

Napoleon balks at him incredulously. "Did you seriously just quote the _Lone Ranger_?"

"Seemed appropriate," Illya tells him simply, sliding down in the seat and crossing his arms over his chest.

 **OOOOO (Peril)**

The world explodes around him in a concussive blast of heat and flames and noise. Gravity becomes little more than an illusion and everything around him goes topsy-turvy as he's flipped through the air like a ragdoll. Napoleon lands heavily in the middle of the street, flat on his back and gasping. The air gets knocked from his lungs in a harsh whoosh and he's left choking and coughing in the smoke filled air.

He manages to open his eyes after a second, blinking up into the blackness of the night sky and watching as tiny fireflies drift and tumble through the sky. It takes him several seconds to realize it's embers and tiny bits of flaming debris fluttering through the sky, not fireflies. He stares at one in particular, a smoldering strip of newspaper that hangs in the air above his head like a lantern. He watches it until it flutters to the ground a few feet away and it takes a monumental amount of effort to turn his head to the side to watch it go.

Everything is muffled and fuzzy like sound is filtering through thick layers of cotton. He raises one hand mechanically and touches one ear, frowning with his fingertips come away bloody. Okay, so possible busted eardrum then. Damn. And after Illya had just told him earlier-

Illya!

Napoleon jerks upwards suddenly, ignoring the way the world shifts and sways dizzyingly around him. He looks around quickly, sweeping his head from side to side and scanning the smoldering parking lot around him. Illya had been right behind him, less than three feet away when the warehouse exploded, but he was nowhere in sight now. There are chunks of concrete and twisted, burning metal all around him but no sign of his Russian partner.

"Peril!" Napoleon shouts, dragging himself to his knees and standing up shakily. He sways a little but manages to stay standing. He listens carefully for any sign of his partner but it's hard to hear anything over the roar of fire and the flames. Not only that, his hearing is still warped from the explosion so he doesn't know if he'd be able to hear anything anyway. It doesn't stop him from trying. "Peril!" he calls again, getting the same results as before.

He mutters a curse and staggers back across the parking lot toward the warehouse. Illya couldn't be that far away, he had to be close by, he was right behind him. "Peril, answer me!" he shouts again, his voice sounding garbled and strange in his own ears. Again he's greeted with nothing but the crack and pop and hiss of flames.

He reaches up to his ear again and digs the earpiece out. Illya had a matching one and he knew he was still wearing it when they left the warehouse; with any luck he still has it and it's still functional. The earpiece falls into his palm uselessly, wires and plastic edges poking out at odd angles. He curses again and wrestles it back into somewhat working order, pushing wires back in and popping plastic pieces back into place. It's still cracked and misshapen from his earlier collision with the ground but there was a chance it might still work. He chooses the ear he has the best chance of hearing anything out of and pushes the earpiece back in. "Peril? Can you hear me?"

There's a hiss and pop of static and he grumbles yet another curse. The earpiece is busted to hell and it's entirely possible that Illya's was in the same shape. He growls and drops it to the ground in irritation, purposely stepping on it as he walks away.

He takes a few more steps toward the remains of the warehouse and freezes, his eyes landing on a familiar cap laying singed and smudged with ash in the middle of the parking lot. He runs toward it, his steps unsteady and shaky, and snatches it off the ground. The cap is unmistakably Illya's and it's something he didn't leave lying around lightly. Something heavy and cold sinks to the pit of Napoleon's stomach.

"Peril!" he calls out again, a bit louder and more desperate this time. Both hands are clenched on the missing agent's hat tightly like it will somehow be the thing that helps find him. "Dammit Peril, answer me!" he shouts again, still scanning the smoldering parking lot. "Don't you dare make me tell Gaby you got blown up!"

"That won't be necessary," a voice says from behind him and Napoleon whirls around so quickly he nearly loses his balance. Illya is making his way across the parking lot slowly, limping just slightly on one leg but he seems relatively unharmed other than that. His clothes are singed and disheveled from the blast and his face is streaked with dirt and ash but Napoleon is pretty sure he looks about the same.

"Where were you?" Napoleon asks pointedly, the question coming out a bit more sharp and biting than he meant it to.

"I got flipped over a car," Illya tells him simply, brushing a wayward ember off his sleeve absently. He stops and eyes the other agent briefly, quirking an eyebrow in curiosity. "Were you concerned?"

"Absolutely not," Napoleon tells him firmly, shoving the hat out in Illya's general direction. "I just didn't want to be responsible for your hat anymore. It clashes with my suit."

Illya smirks and takes the hat from him. "God forbid."

"Indeed," Napoleon agrees, turning his attention away from his partner and back to the burning remains of the warehouse. "Guess that was a bust."

"Could have been worse," Illya remarks, gesturing vaguely to the parking lot around them.

"Good of you to keep it in perspective, Peril," Napoleon comments lightly, brushing ash and rubble dust off his sleeve.

"It wasn't as bad as Malta."

"Nothing has _ever_ been as bad as Malta," the American agent replies with a slight shudder. The mission in Malta had been hands down the worst assignment they'd ever been on and every difficult mission afterwards was ranked in terribleness to Malta. It was a bit terrifying to think of anything that could ever top the awfulness of Malta.

There's a crackle of something electronic and Illya pulls out a (remarkably) still working walkie-talkie from his pocket. He adjusts the dial and Waverly's voice suddenly cuts through the static. "Kuryakin? Solo? Do you copy?"

Napoleon takes one look back at the smoldering remains of the warehouse and the debris scattered all over the parking lot. Waverly won't be happy about this and it's more than likely going to end with both of them hunched over a pile of paperwork. Well, the longer they avoid that the better.

He reaches out and claps Illya on the shoulder. "All yours, Peril," he tells his partner, flashing him a smile in response to Illya's annoyed glare.

 **OOOOO (Romeo)**

"Finished so soon, Romeo?"

"Sooner than I would have hoped but yes, finished," Napoleon replies with a regretful sigh. It was a shame really; Annette was a beautiful woman and he had hoped their evening together would have lasted for a bit longer but such a thing was difficult to accomplish when her husband unexpected returned home a day early. Napoleon had just managed to grab his wallet and swipe a robe from the closet before slipping out the window.

His clothing had been left behind in the hassle and confusion, things he was certainly never going to get back now. Annette's husband already suspected that his wife was being unfaithful (not that he had any room to speak; his list of mistresses could take up an entire page) but it wouldn't do to get caught in the act. He was nearly positive that Annette had destroyed all evidence of the encounter immediately after he left. Probably in the fireplace if Napoleon were to guess.

Which meant that all the trackers Illya had no doubt sewn into his clothes were destroyed along with keys for the car he had rented which he had foolishly left in the pocket of his jacket. So now he was stranded in the middle of Paris, without clothes and without a car. It wasn't exactly how he pictured this night going.

He'd found a payphone a block away and dug out the handful of change he needed to make a phone call. Illya had picked up on the second ring. The teasing tone was already there in the way he referred to him as "Romeo" and it was only going to get worse with what happened next.

"I need a ride."

There's a brief silence on the other line and he can practically _hear_ Illya frown. "What happened to your car?"

"Hard to drive without keys," Napoleon responds with another sigh, mentally kicking himself for not fishing the keys out of his pocket before he fled. "Hot wiring isn't an option either; Monsieur Berlang's lackeys are swarming all over the place and attracting attention to myself would be detrimental to the mission."

He hears something in the background, another voice that more than likely belonged to Gaby. "Did you plant the equipment?" Illya asks, relaying the question through the phone.

"Yeah, I got it; don't worry. Berlang has more bugs in his house than a botanical garden." Their mission required gathering information from a prominent businessman and his associates, all of whom were suspected of working with a weapons trafficking network just outside of the city. Any information would more than likely be shared in the confines of his office or his private study. The office had been covered earlier that day but the house was another issue entirely. They needed someone to gain access inside the house and plant microphones and recording devices throughout the study and anywhere else that might be beneficial to them.

Napoleon had volunteered for this part of the mission, partly because he was light with his fingers and could plant the equipment easily but mostly because Annette Berlang was a woman of renowned and striking beauty. She was also a woman stuck in a loveless marriage who was more than happy to entertain a handsome American antiquities dealer while her husband was away on business. And Napoleon had more than enough experience getting himself invited into the homes (and bedrooms) of beautiful women.

Apparently satisfied with the answer, Illya continues. "Where are you now?"

"A block or so away from Berlang's address; I had to leave in a bit of a rush and couldn't grab my keys. Going back to the house of a man whose wife I just slept with is not exactly a smart idea."

He hears Gaby in the background again and Illya covers the receiver to say something back to her. A second or so passes before he gets back on the line. "We can be there in an hour. Are you in a safe location?"

"Hardly but I'll make due," Napoleon tells him, glances out across the street for an easily identifiable landmark. "There's a tavern across the street, _Le Cygne._ I'll be in there."

"Good," Illya says in approval. "We'll meet you there." He starts to hang up but Napoleon calls his name to stop him. He's not too happy about the request that comes next but it's unavoidable.

"Would you mind terribly bringing me some clothes?"

The pause on the other line is deafening. "You lost your clothes along with your keys?"

Napoleon sighs heavily and rubs his eyes. "As I said, I left in something of a hurry."

He can swear he hears Gaby cackling in the background and there's the barest hint of a chuckle from Illya. "Just stay where you are, Romeo," he tells him after a second. "We'll be there soon."

The call ends and Napoleon hangs up the phone, sliding his wallet into the pocket of the robe and stepping out into the street. It's well after 10 pm so the streets are relatively empty and he's able to slip across the street without drawing too much attention to himself.

The tavern is pretty empty as well save for a few patrons who look like they come in on a daily basis. A few of them look up when the robe-clad agent enters but no one says anything; a bar like this probably holds an unspoken mind-your-own-business creed which Napoleon is thankful for. He finds a small table toward the back and sits with his back to the wall so he has a clear view of the room around him. First rule of being an agent: never expose your back to a room.

After a few minutes, curiosity gets the better of one of the men and he walks over casually. "Nuit agitée?" he asks as he sinks into the chair across from Napoleon.

The agent gives him a sheepish, rueful smile and shrugs slightly. "Ma femme m'a jeté."

The other man chuckles and shakes his head. "Ça arrive aux meilleurs d'entre nous." He holds up his hand to order a drink and a minute or so later the bartender walks over and sets two pint glasses full of beer on the table. Napoleon reaches for his wallet but the man waves him off. "Pour votre cœur brisé," he says, pointing his finger at the agent's chest while picking up the second pint glass with his other hand.

Napoleon offers him another smile and nods in thanks. "Merci beaucoup."

The rest of the evening passes by quietly and a little over an hour after he walked into the bar, he sees Gaby's car pull to a stop next to the curb outside. He finishes his drink and walks up to the bar, passing some money to the bartender and nodding in the direction of the patrons behind him. "Pour les gens," he says, watching as the bartender nods and begins pulling out clean glasses for the rest of his customers.

Satisfied, Napoleon walks outside and comes face-to-face with his Russian partner standing outside the car, a set of clothes hanging from one arm and a smirk on his face. "Having a good night?"

"Not a word," Napoleon mutters, snatching the clothes from him and sliding into the back seat. Illya glances over his shoulder at Gaby and the two share a silent remark. Neither of them say anything but Napoleon can see Gaby doing her best to smother a grin when she pulls away from the curb.

 **OOOOO (Comrade)**

"Illya's drunk."

"That's impossible. Illya doesn't get drunk."

"He does and he is," Gaby insists over the phone, her voice equal parts exasperated and concerned. "I need your help; I'm worried about him."

Napoleon glances at his watch. It's a little past midnight and he'd left Illya and Gaby to their own devices around 10:30 so whatever had happened between then and now had ended with their Russian partner apparently getting himself completely drunk. He frowns at the abruptness of the timeline. "Okay, where are you?"

"We're still in the room," Gaby tells him and she's speaking softly like she doesn't want Illya to know she's on the phone. "I went downstairs to run a few errands and when I came back Illya was already well on his way to being intoxicated. I don't know what happened, I wasn't gone for very long…"

The American agent nods and stands up. His room is on the ground floor of the hotel while Gaby and Illya's was on the fourth; he could be up there in a few minutes. "It's okay, I'm on my way up. Where is he now?"

"He's out on the balcony," Gaby tells him and something heavy settles in Napoleon's chest. "Please hurry. The way he is now...I'm afraid he might hurt himself."

"I'm on my way," he tells her again, hanging up the phone and walking out the door. They were on a mission in Italy, Gaby and Illya once again playing a married couple while Napoleon kept to his own personal cover. It never bothered him that Gaby and Illya always got paired together for these missions; they had an undeniable chemistry (thought both of them were too stubborn to act on it) and besides, Napoleon preferred working alone. The conference they'd all attended earlier had gone off without a hitch and Illya had seemed content enough when Napoleon left them earlier that evening so he has no idea what could have caused the change now.

He trades the elevator in favor of the stairs, knowing he can reach the fourth floor much faster on foot. He clears the stairs easily enough and steps out into the fourth floor hallway carefully. Gaby and Illya's room was at the very end of the hallway and he walks quietly down the corridor out of respect for the guests who are already asleep.

He reaches the door at the end of the hall and taps softly against the wood. Gaby opens it a second or so later and steps back to allow him access inside. "He's out there," she tells him once he's in the room, her eyes drifting over to the glass doors leading out to the balcony.

Napoleon glances over and catches sight of the broad expanse of Illya's shoulders silhouetted on the other side of the curtains. He lets his gaze linger for a moment longer before turning back to Gaby.

"I need you to listen to me, alright?" he begins, planting his hands on her shoulders as he speaks. "I want you to go into the bedroom and close the door behind you."

Gaby looks like she wants to protest but Napoleon cuts her off gently before she can. "Neither of us have ever experienced Illya being drunk and I'm not sure how he will react. He could become violent and if that happens, I don't want you in the room."

Gaby hesitates, frowning unhappily, but eventually she nods in understanding. "Okay," she says finally, her gaze drifting over to the door one more time. "Just be careful."

"I always am," he assures her, gently steering her in direction of the bedroom. He waits until the door has closed behind her before he turns and makes his way to the balcony.

Illya has his back to him, leaning against the edge of the balcony and staring out across the city. He doesn't move or even acknowledge Napoleon when the other agent approaches, his eyes still locked on the horizon. There's a bottle of vodka on the ground beside his foot that's over half-empty, the contents of which are probably what's swirling in the glass in his hand. Napoleon makes a mental note of size of the bottle and how much is missing but he doesn't say anything out loud.

"Evening, Comrade," he greets casually, coming up to lean against the balcony railing beside his partner. He allows Illya to have his space but stays close enough to prevent him from taking a header over the edge if he so chooses. The Russian spares him a glance but doesn't say anything. Instead, he takes another large gulp from the glass of vodka in his hand.

Napoleon frowns and tries a different tactic. "I see you're drinking tonight," he begins, nodding toward the glass in Illya's hand and the bottle at his feet. "Rather heavily," he adds beneath his breath. "Care for a drinking buddy?"

Once again, Illya says nothing but he nudges the bottle toward the American with his foot. Napoleon takes the hint and picks up the offered bottle. There isn't an extra glass so he settles with taking a shot straight from the bottle. The vodka burns all the way down and he winces slightly, coughing into the back of his hand before he speaks. "Something you want to talk about?"

"No," Illya answers shortly, his voice tight and clipped. Napoleon can't tell if he's angry or upset or hell, he really can't tell what kind of emotion the Russian agent is experiencing. His voice sounds a little heavier than usual, the word a little more rounded from the alcohol, but that's about it. Napoleon just nods in acceptance and rests his hip against the railing. "Fair enough, we can drink in silence."

Illya seems content with this and drains the rest of his glass. Seeing his glass empty, Napoleon passes the bottle back to him and watches as Illya pours a liberal amount back into the glass. The bottle is passed back once again and Napoleon takes it wordlessly.

For several silent minutes neither of them speak, the soft push-pull of late night traffic in the city below are the only sounds that fill the evening. Napoleon watches Illya from the corner of his eye carefully, taking in his carefully neutral expression and the tightness of his posture. Something is definitely wrong, he doesn't have to be a master spy to figure that out, but he doesn't know how to breach the subject. Illya is dangerous enough when he's stone-cold sober; Napoleon has absolutely no idea what he's like when he's drunk.

"Gaby's worried about you," he says after another long stretch of silence passes.

"She shouldn't be," Illya mutters, his words slurring ever so slightly when he speaks.

Napoleon nods in understanding but doesn't drop the subject. "Is it us?" he asks because he really doesn't know; maybe Illya had been given some kind of information on them that set him off.

"No," the Russian tells him bluntly and even though the answer is short and clipped, it's the truth. There's no hint of hesitation or uncertainty; whatever is going on it has nothing to do with him or Gaby.

Illya reaches out and takes the bottle from him, pouring the remainder of the vodka into his glass and setting the empty bottle on the ground in the corner of the balcony. He takes a moderate-sized drink and swallows thickly.

Napoleon watches him silently and shakes his head. "You should drink some water," he tells him quietly. "You're going to have one hell of a hangover in the morning."

"I'm fine," Illya insists and Napoleon resists the urge to smirk humorlessly.

"You're not but I won't push the issue," he tells him simply, holding his hands up in the universal sign of surrender. "Whatever you're dealing with, it's your business. Gaby and I are here to help if you want but I won't force you to tell me."

Illya is silent for another second, contemplating this carefully. Finally he nods and finishes the rest of the vodka in a single gulp. He sets the empty glass down on ground and turns to face Napoleon. The American says nothing about the way he sways slightly when he straightens.

"Thank you," he mumbles quietly, his accent becoming so thick thanks to the alcohol that it's almost impossible to understand him. He sways a little more and reaches out to steady himself against the balcony railing. "But I am not good company tonight," he tells Napoleon bluntly, his words running together a little towards the end. "I am going to bed."

Napoleon nods and figures he should probably go in and retrieve Gaby and take her back to his room for the evening. He would volunteer to stay behind to make sure Illya didn't succumb to alcohol poisoning in the middle of the night but he still wasn't comfortable with putting Gaby at risk by leaving her in the room with an intoxicated Illya. Not that he thought Illya would ever hurt her; he was pretty sure Illya would rather die painfully than damage a single hair on Gaby's head. Still, it wasn't a good idea and it was pretty obvious Illya needed some space. Whatever was going on with their Russian partner, it was probably best to let him work through it on his own.

Illya takes a step toward the door, sways, and nearly loses his balance but Napoleon steps forward quickly and catches him by the elbow. "Easy, Comrade," he says quietly, keeping a relatively firm grip on Illya's arm to keep him from toppling over. "You're alright."

Illya says nothing for a moment, his eyes slightly unfocused and glassed over. He locks one hand over the one Napoleon is using to keep him upright and squeezes it almost to the point of pain. It's not intentional, though; Napoleon is sure of that.

"My mother is dead," Illya mutters tightly after a moment, something that sounds a lot like a sigh coming out with the admission. He grips Napoleon's hand a bit tighter but whether it's for balance or something else entirely, Napoleon can't be sure. "I received the call earlier."

The admission feels heavy and weighted like a lead balloon hovering in the air between them. Napoleon had known that whatever it was must have been serious but he didn't expect this. "I'm sorry," he says earnestly, hating how empty and pointless the words seem in a situation like this. "Truly, I am."

Illya just nods slightly and releases the death grip he has on the other agent's hand. He allows Napoleon to keep one hand wrapped around his elbow and guide him back into the hotel room. When Napoleon starts to steer him toward the bedroom, Illya firmly shakes his head and comes to a complete stop in the middle of the living room.

"No," he says resolutely. "I will sleep on the couch. I do not want to bother Gaby."

"I don't think you'll have to worry about that-" Napoleon starts but Illya is already dropping down onto the sofa in the middle of the room and slumping over to one side. He just manages to make it to a prone position before he falls into a deep, alcohol-induced sleep.

Gaby pokes her head out of the bedroom a second or so later and catches Napoleon's eye. She frowns in concern at the drunk Russian passed out on the couch and looks back up at Napoleon.

"I'll tell you in the morning," he promises quietly, glancing back down at Illya. He's not sure how that conversation might play out but it's something he'll deal with later. "He just needs to sleep for now."

Gaby doesn't look convinced but she doesn't press the issue. She disappears into the bedroom for a moment and returns a few seconds later with a comforter tossed over one shoulder. She walks across the room quietly, her barefeet making almost no sound as she approaches, and carefully tucks the comforter around their intoxicated partner. She pauses long enough to pass her fingertips over his forehead tenderly before stepping away from the couch. "Will you be alright?" she asks, directing her attention to Napoleon now.

The American agent nods and looks back down at Illya. "I'm going to stay up and keep an eye on him for a while. You should get some sleep."

Gaby hesitates but knows he's probably right; Illya is down for the count for the next few hours and them hovering around him won't change that. She points a stern finger at Napoleon before she leaves though. "You and I are going to have a chat in the morning," she insists firmly.

Napoleon gives her a small smile and nods. "I promise I will tell you everything."

"Good," Gaby says, seemingly satisfied with the promise. She reaches out and squeezes Napoleon's arm gently before she steps away, a silent thanks for his help. "Call me if you need me."

The American agent nods in assurance. "I will. Goodnight, Ms. Teller."

"Goodnight, Mr. Solo," Gaby calls back over her shoulder as she disappears in the bedroom and closes the door quietly behind her.

Left alone in the room with his intoxicated, sleeping partner, Napoleon sighs quietly and sinks down into the chair beside the couch. He glances over at Illya, measuring his slow, even breathing and counting the space between each breath. Convinced he's not about to slip into an alcohol-induced coma and die, he settles in for a long, silent night of waiting.

 **OOOOO (Partner)**

The mission could have been a lot worse but then it also could have been a lot better. Grey areas were always a pain in the ass. They had found the analyst they were sent to retrieve easily enough but apparently they weren't the first ones who had come looking for him. A German syndicate had been hounding him for weeks, each visit becoming more and more hostile to the point where it became obvious that kidnapping or something worse were the next logical steps. Because of this, he was ready for them when they arrived at his apartment.

The second the door was pushed open, a cloud of white smoke filled the room, obscuring their vision and blanketing the room in a thick haze. Illya reacts instinctively and reaches out, grabbing a handful of Napoleon's suit and jerking him backward out of the room. They both cover their mouths with their sleeves and stagger back away from the door and the smoke.

It takes them a few seconds to realize that the smoke isn't smoke at all. In fact, it's a gas and it's not nearly as poisonous as they had originally thought. Napoleon moves forward first, peeking into the room and discovering the source of the haze.

"Dry ice," he mutters as he comes upon the plastic bottle sitting close to the door with thick, white gas pouring out of it and filling the room. There's a loud clap as a window slams shut inside the apartment and the American agent curses quietly. "And there goes our analyst…"

"He went to the fire escape," Illya grumbles, cutting through the apartment and finding the window their MIA analyst had just slipped through. He opens it and steps out onto the platform, making his way to the ladder leading down to the ground.

It would take too long for both of them to go down at the same time so Napoleon turns and goes back out into the hallway, heading in the direction of the nearest stairwell. If Illya can cover him from above and Napoleon can block him from the ground, they stand a better chance of catching him without further incident.

Napoleon clears the stairs quickly and makes it to the ground floor landing a few seconds later. He can hear a scuffle outside the door from where he's standing in the stairwell and he steps out just in time to see Illya get knocked to the ground.

"Whoa, there," Napoleon says, stepping out into the alley and coming to face their analyst. The man is of medium build and doesn't appear overly strong but he must have some kind of military background because he managed to not only knock Illya off his feet but also disarm him in the process. The Russian agent's gun is in the analyst's hand and it's currently pointed directly at Illya's heart. "Let's not do anything rash."

"Stay back!" the man shouts frantically, swinging the gun between Illya and Napoleon. "Stay back! I mean it!"

"Put the gun down, Mr. Brinkwell," he orders calmly, keeping his eyes locked on the panicky man in front of him. He spares another glance down at Illya and, assured that he hasn't injured anything other than his pride, turns his attention back to the analyst. "We're here to help you. We're trying to keep you safe."

"You're lying!" Brinkwell snaps back shakily, the gun still gripped tightly in his hand. "You're here to kill me!"

"No, we're not," Napoleon assures him, holding up his hands to prove that even though he's holding a gun as well, he doesn't intend on using it. "We here to help, I promise."

Brinkwell shakes his head nervously and keeps the gun pointed at Illya. "I don't believe you."

"Okay," Napoleon says, realizing a different tactic is in order. He keeps his eyes on the panicked analyst and very slowly crouches down, setting his gun on the ground and then standing back up. "Consider that proof that we're not trying to kill you. If we _had_ wanted to kill you then we would have done it already."

Brinkwell looks slightly less frantic at the gesture but he doesn't drop his own weapon.

"See, we're making progress already," Napoleon tells him with a slight smirk. "Now I would really appreciate it if you would stop pointing a gun at my partner. It's adding unnecessary tension to an already tense situation and to be honest, it's a bit distracting."

Brinkwell hesitates, the gun wavering just slightly in his hand. "No tricks…?" he asks cautiously, his eyes flickering between Illya and Napoleon.

"No tricks," Napoleon assures him firmly. "I swear."

The gun begins to lower and Napoleon is just foolish enough to think that maybe they're in the clear when the sound of a gunshot rings out in the alley around them. The bullet pings off the wall and they all duck simultaneously as the gunshot echoes between the walls.

"Damn," Napoleon grumbles to himself irritably. "I thought we'd put enough distance between us and the Germans."

"Liar!" Brinkwell shouts in outrage, turning to gun toward Napoleon this time. "I knew I couldn't trust you!" His finger tightens on the trigger and Napoleon is fully prepared to be shot but there's a flash of movement as Illya sweeps Brinkwell's feet out from under him and knocks him to the ground. The analyst falls to the ground heavily, the gun skittering out of his hand and sliding across the concrete.

Brinkwell gets to his knees and tries to reach for the gun again but Illya blocks his path. The Russian grabs him around the waist and wrestles him to the ground, jabbing two fingers into a pressure point in the back of Brinkwell's neck. Almost instantly, the analyst stops fighting and goes limp, sprawling across the concrete like he's been thrown out of a truck.

Napoleon walks over to the unconscious analyst and nudges his leg with the toe of his shoe. "Very effective." He turns and offers a hand to Illya, hauling the taller man off the ground with a little effort. "You alright, partner?"

Illya nods and stoops down to scoop Brinkwell off the ground. "He will not be happy when he wakes up," he comments quietly, looping one of the unconscious man's arms around his neck and holding him up with another arm around his waist.

"Well, he won't be a German prisoner when he wakes up either so there's that," Napoleon retorts, turning his attention back to the mouth of the alley where the gunshot had come from. "Our extraction should be on the next block over," he tells Illya, glancing back at him over his shoulder. "You take Brinkwell and I'll cover you."

"Whatever you say, partner," Illya replies, straightening and dragging Brinkwell along toward the opposite end of the alley, Napoleon covering them from behind.

 **OOOOO (+1)**

Illya curses and grabs the walkie-talkie from his belt. "I found him," he tells Gaby grimly, his eyes locked on the bound and hooded man chained to a chair in the middle of the room. The room is dark and cold, uncomfortably so, lit only by a single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. The man in the chair has a black hood tossed over his head and his wrists are bound in chains connected to the floor. He's barefoot and shivering just slightly, his clothes dirty and torn and hanging off of him like filthy rags. It's a far cry from how the suave and composed American agent usually carries himself and it sets Illya's teeth on edge.

He crosses the room silently and drops to a crouch next to the chair. "Hold on, Cowboy," he mutters quietly as he sets to work on the chains binding his partner's wrists. "I'll get you out of here."

He frowns when the other agent stiffens and flinches away from him, trying to put as much space between himself and Illya as possible. Illya's frown deepens when he reaches out to remove the hood, pulling it away from Napoleon's face and allowing him to see. There's a gag in the other man's mouth and obvious signs of bruising around his eyes and jaw (Illya vows once again to exact slow and painful revenge on the men who did this to him). He's been missing for just over four days and the strain is showing in the dark circles beneath his eyes and haggard pallor of his skin.

His normally perfectly coiffed dark hair is dirty and hangs across his eyes, obscuring them for the most part. They lock onto Illya in a split second though and he glares murderously at the other agent. He snarls some kind of muffled curse that sounds an awful lot like an insult and glares hatefully at his Russian partner. Illya is confused.

"Cowboy, stop," he tells him patiently, reaching up to remove the gag. "I'm trying to help."

"Get away from me!" Napoleon hisses furiously the second the gag is pulled away. "If you touch me again I'll break your fucking hand."

The Russian agent frowns again and shakes his head in confusion. He has no idea what's causing his partner's intense animosity toward him nor does he understand Napoleon's behavior. This is not his partner, it's not like him at all. In all the time they've worked together, he's never seen Napoleon react this way toward anyone, let alone him. It's almost like he doesn't recognize Illya as his partner.

The thought raises alarm bells inside his head and he reaches out and grabs Napoleon's arm, ignoring the barrage of curses the other man throws at him, and rolls up his sleeve. He can make out the tell-tale bruising of track marks on the inside of the other man's elbow, at least a dozen all centered around the vein. He curses quietly; the number of track marks meant that whatever kind of information Napoleon's captor's were trying to get out of him was not being being given up lightly and he was injected multiple times with whatever compound they were using to get him to speak. He's not sure what they've been dosing the other man with and what the intention behind it was but whatever it was is having a very adverse effect on him now.

He reaches up and lays a hand on the side of Napoleon's face, holding him still when the other man tries to pull away. It takes some effort (because Napoleon was doing his damnedest to pull away from his grip) but he manages pull one of his eyelids back and get a good look at his eye. The pupil is blown wide and his eyes dart back and forth like he's having trouble focusing on any one thing in particular. Illya curses again.

Napoleon tenses and tries to pull away again but Illya refuses to allow it, instead keeping a firm grip on the other man and holding him still. "Cowboy, look at me," he commands, planting his hands on either side of the American agent's face and forcing him to look up at him. "Who am I?"

The American bares his teeth furiously and tries to jerk away. "Piss off, you communist bastard," he growls, his eyes wild and a little manic.

Illya feels a muscle twitch in his jaw but he forces the anger down; it's the drugs talking, not his partner. "Cowboy-" he starts again but stops and amends his tactics mid-sentence. "Napoleon," he says, using the other man's full name this time. It has the desired effect and the American agent stops struggling quite so much. "Look at me."

Napoleon does as he's told, locking eyes with the man above him. His breathing is harsh and erratic and every muscle in his body is tight and rigid like a bowstring. He tries to pull away again but the attempt is less violent than it was before.

"Who am I?" Illya asks again, stressing each word for maximum emphasis.

"A very angry Russian," Napoleon bites back, his teeth clench tightly as he speaks.

Illya shakes his head and tries again. "Who am I to you?"

Napoleon looks at him strangely like he doesn't understand the question and struggles against him again.

"Стоп," Illya mutters, loosening his grip just slightly in the hopes that maybe if Napoleon doesn't feel so trapped it will help. It works; Napoleon stops struggling and stares up at him with dark, guarded eyes. "What is my name?"

"I don't know," the American tells him bluntly.

"Yes, you do," Illya insists, staring directly into the other man's eyes. "What is my name?"

"I don't know," Napoleon says again as forcefully as he can.

Illya curses and shakes his head. "слушайте меня, мой друг," he pleads, his thumb brushing gently against the American's temple. His skin is clammy beneath his fingers, a side effect from the coldness of the room. "You know me," he tells him firmly with as much conviction as he can muster. "Concentrate."

Napoleon's eyes flicker across his face for several tense seconds, his expression slowly fading from distrustful and aggressive to confused and hesitant. Illya tries again. "What is my name?"

The other man hesitates, perhaps unsure of what kind of reaction his answer will produce. Finally, he draws a shaky breath and lets it out as a sigh. "Illya…?" he says but the response is more question than statement.

Illya nods encouragingly. "Yes, good. Say it again."

Napoleon looks up at him, recognition very slowly beginning to dawn in his eyes. "Illya," he says again, a little more sure this time.

The Russian agent nods again and chances a smile. "Very good. Who am I to you?"

The question catches Napoleon off guard and he tense and tries to pull away again. He shakes his head desperately, hair falling across his eyes. Illya carefully brushes it away with one hand.

"Napoleon," he says again, his hands still pressed on either side of the other man's face. "Who am I to you?"

Napoleon stares at him for another second or so before he answers. "You're…" he starts, swallowing nervously and shaking his head. He squeezes his eyes shut tightly, his breath coming out fast and uneven as he struggles to remember. He's starting to shiver again. "You're my partner," he says finally, the words shaking a little like he's not quite sure he believes them.

"Yes," Illya tells him with a small smile. "I'm here to bring you home."

Napoleon frowns and looks around the room in confusion like he suddenly doesn't realize where he is. "Home…?" he asks quietly, more to himself than to Illya. "Where are we?"

"Don't worry about that now," Illya tells him, allowing his hands to fall away from Napoleon's face and turning his attention back to the chains around his wrists. He pulls a small laser from his pocket and sets to work melting the metal links.

"Illya."

Illya stops and looks up at his partner but Napoleon isn't looking at him. Rather, his head has tipped back and he's staring at the ceiling, his eyes fixed on the single lightbulb above them. "Illya. Illya. Illya." He says his name over and over, breathless and desperate like a mantra. Maybe if he says it enough he'll remember.

"I'm here," he tells him, patting his knee gently.

"Illya. Illya. Illya," Napoleon continues to mumble, his voice dropping to just above a whisper.

Illya frowns darkly and goes back to the chains. His main concern is getting Napoleon out of here and back to the safehouse but second to that, pressing and burning in the back of his mind, is finding the men responsible for this and ripping them limb from limb.

The chains break free after a few minutes and fall into a useless heap on the ground below. Illya tugs his jacket off and drapes it around Napoleon's shoulders, worried that the combination of drugs and cold could make him go into shock before he gets him to safety.

No longer restrained, Napoleon carefully pulls his hands into his lap, flexing and extending his fingers absently. The skin around his wrists is rubbed completely raw and bleeding sluggishly and the beds of his fingernails have a faint purplish tint to them.

Illya notices this and reaches out, taking his partner's cold hands in his own and gently pulling him to his feet. Napoleon grips his hands and stands stiffly, trying to maintain his balance after sitting for so long. Illya takes a step forward when the shorter man begins to wobble and sway and braces him against his side. He grabs one of Napoleon's arms and loops it around his shoulder, offering him the balance and strength that he doesn't have at the moment.

He waits until the American is able to stand on his own (for the most part) before trying to move him. "Napoleon?" he asks, watching his partner carefully from the corner of his eye.

"Illya," Napoleon replies simply and it's the only assurance he needs.

Illya smirks slightly and keeps an arm wrapped around his partner's waist, holding him tightly as he walks them out of the building.

* * *

 **Translations:**

 **Nuit agitée- rough night/restless night**

 **Ma femme m'a jeté- my wife threw me out**

 **Ça arrive aux meilleurs d'entre nous- it happens to the best of us**

 **Pour votre cœur brisé- for your broken heart**

 **Merci beaucoup- many thanks**

 **Pour les gens- for the people**

 **Стоп- stop**

 **слушайте меня, мой друг- listen to me, my friend**


End file.
